


i'm here in search of your glory

by zanthetran



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: DCI AU, F/F, Fluff, Human!Doctor, Marching Band AU, Pining, and a bit of snare!bill, and sideline!ryan, and tuba!jack, drum major!doctor, its an au guys you get the gist, trumpet!yaz
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:08:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25266628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zanthetran/pseuds/zanthetran
Summary: “You’re pathetic, mate. Truly,” Bill says beside her.Yaz ignores her as she watches the Doctor run a hand through her hair to push it away from her face (doesn’t work) and laugh loudly before tilting her head back to take a long swig from her water bottle.“Jesus, would ya look at those,” Bill says admiringly. “Yaz, if you don’t shag her I just might, if only to get those arms around me.”The muscle of the Doctor’s bicep flexes and her throat bobs. She recaps the water bottle and goes back to the conversation, absolutely none the wiser that she’s slowly but surely killing Yaz.“Imagine how strong her hands probably are —““Bill.”orthe dci au no one in their right mind would write, and yet.you don’t need to know anything about dci to read this — it’s just fancy marching band yall.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/Yasmin Khan
Comments: 8
Kudos: 35





	i'm here in search of your glory

**Author's Note:**

> listen, dci enthusiasts, dont come at me calling it fancy marching band alright. If I made this fic too technical no one would read it so.
> 
> do I know a lot about dci? debatable. did I write a dci au anyways? YEP. The accuracy of this entire fic is probably like 30% at best, so take that as you will. Comment ur fave band mine is the cavaliers BUT the madison scouts kinda have me by the throat rn so.
> 
> chapter notes: IL, about halfway through tour

Yaz is good at what she does. She’s not cocky enough to believe she’s even close to the best, but she knows she’s _good_ at what she does, and what she does is book it across a field at 180 beats per minute, backwards, while playing two bars of ridiculously hard runs (it had taken her three months to even be able to play it, and by now it’s just muscle memory), all without a second thought.

And she loves it. Every single sweaty, aching second.

Well, okay, she loves it less when she’s being woken up at five in the morning by Jack who pokes her in the cheek and says, “Rise ’n shine, sleepyhead,” really close to her face. She swats her arm out but Jack is used to it by now and has already moved out of reach with a laugh. How he’s always so awake this early is beyond her (though, maybe he just doesn’t go to sleep, that really might be it). He wakes Bill up the same way and leaves when she threatens him and he laughs over his shoulder, “Don’t threaten me with a good time, Bill.”

Yaz gets ready, going into the locker room to change into a sports bra and tank top. Bill braids her hair while she kneels in front of her and mutters the entire time, “Dunno why I do this for you, like you’re a child.”

“Because you enjoy my company,” Yaz says.

“Right,” Bill chuckles.

They stretch and run before breakfast (which is always some type of cereal, and milk in small cartons) and then sit in the band room for daily briefings.

The walk to the field is shit and Bill whistles and says, “God damn, they ever mow this place?” as she half waddles through the tall grass (almost ankle high, jesus _do_ they ever mow this place?), snare bumping against her knee. Yaz hopes the practice field is in a bit better condition as she keeps stepping in hidden holes on the ground and almost falling. Bill says, “Place bets whose gonna eat dirt today?”

“Rory, almost definitely. The guy is a good player but clumsy as hell.”

“I dunno, Jack’s got all that weight on his shoulder. Makes him a bit top heavy,” Bill tries, glancing over at Jack walking along with his instrument held on his shoulder.

“Have you seen him do an about face? It’s impressive,” Yaz says. “If he falls we’re down a tuba and I don’t want to know what their section will do without him.”

“I bet if you fell Doctor would be all over you,” Bill says. “Probably jump right off that podium.”

Yaz almost pushes her into the pond they walk next to. She’s seriously considering it (and maybe would have if it wouldn’t hurt the snare). “If you fell I would go out of my way step on top of you,” Yaz says.

“Oi, mate, that hurts.” Bill feigns a pained look and puts her hand over her heart — or well, on top of the black metal harness that sits over her chest and holds the snare to her hips. The sentiment is there.

They walk in silence for a moment, the field growing ever closer with each step and the sun beating down hard against the tops of their heads. It’s barely seven in the morning and the humid air sticks to their skin like extra clothes. Yaz thinks maybe this is hell, and she’s actually dead and she’s never going to stop doing this (DCI, marching, competitions, living on the road for 3 months of the year).

Bill says, “Honestly, dunno how ginger over there isn’t always sunburnt. I think this heat is gonna give _me_ a sunburn.”

“SPF 6,000, probably.”

“I heard anything after 60 is just a bust.”

“You don’t even remember sunscreen half the time,” Yaz points out.

Bill shrugs. “I bet if you asked the Doctor to rub —“

“Bill, I really am gonna toss you into the lake if you keep it up,” Yaz warns.

“Yeah? Good luck fishin’ my drum out. Hope it floats,” Bill laughs.

“I’ll just buy another.”

“Bet.”

“How much can they be? $40 and half a subway sandwich?” Yaz grins.

“Oi, now you’re just bein’ rude. Know for a fact it costs more than your poor excuse of an instrument.”

Yaz looks down at the shining silver trumpet held in one hand, sunlight making it hard to look at. The dents and scratches truly show it’s age and frequent (constant) use, and Yaz can remember almost every dent and scratch and how she got them.

(For the record, she does have a performance horn that isn’t as well used. She’s not an _animal._ )

“You think they’re dating?” Bill asks after a moment.

“Who, Rory and Amy?I’d say yeah —“

“Clara and the Doctor,” Bill interrupts.

Yaz looks over at her curiously. “You like the Doctor?”

Bill turns to her with a confused expression. “No, course not.”

It takes a minute for the answer to dawn on Yaz and when it does she opens her mouth in a wide grin and nudges Bill with her elbow. “You like _Clara_ , then.”

It’s not a question and neither of them treat it like one. Instead, Bill pulls a stick from the bag hanging on the side of her snare and holds it up threateningly at Yaz. “You say any more ‘bout it and I’ll hurt you,” she warns.

Yaz looks at her smugly. “What happened to ‘no in-band dating’?”

Bill shrugs. “That was after Heather, I’ve moved on. And I’m gonna be aging out next year so it’s my last chance to be shagged by a woman with arm muscles that could choke me out.”

“Disgusting.”

Bill quirks an eyebrow in her direction. “Don’t tell me you haven’t had one too many dreams about the Doctor wrapping you in her _strong arms_ , maybe putting those fingers to —“

“Bill!” Yaz takes the stick out of her hands and hits her on the harm, hard.

“Ow! Not supposed to hit a woman with her own instrument, y’know. ’S rude.”

They get to the field and Yaz tosses her bag to the sideline and kneels down to get out her chart and pen, water pack already strapped to her back. Bill stands over her, hips pushed out as she holds the weight of her drum on one leg and ties a bandana around her forehead. They use her snare as a makeshift table while Yaz pulls out bug spray for the both of them (apparently in BFE mosquitoes come in swarms and love sweaty musicians). Yaz sprays down the backs of both their legs and arms and then they’re set. Bill shoves a water bottle in between her chest and the harness and walks with her to the field to get set.

And then it’s drill, without instruments for an hour, then with, at attention. She’s sweating hard by the time they get their first break two hours later and she refills her water pack with ice and cold water. Bill walks over and wipes a hand over her stomach, the sweat running down her body like she’d just stepped out of the shower.

“If that guard girl gets that close to me during drill one more time I’m seriously gonna have it out,” Bill mumbles as she angrily opens a granola bar and takes a bite. “It’s like she _wants_ to be hit by my drum or somethin’.”

“Maybe she likes you, wants to be near you,” Yaz quips. She’s talking to Bill but her eyes are trained on the woman sitting on the podium, legs hanging over the edge. She’s bent over, hands gripping the edge of the metal, talking animatedly to Ryan below her. Her sleeves are rolled up on the white shirt and Yaz can’t see her shorts from where she stands but she’s sure she’s wearing them (Yaz definitely would’ve noticed if she wasn’t).

“You’re pathetic, mate. Truly,” Bill says beside her.

Yaz ignores her as she watches the Doctor run a hand through her hair to push it away from her face (doesn’t work) and laugh loudly before tilting her head back to take a long swig from her water bottle.

“Jesus, would ya look at those,” Bill says admiringly. “Yaz, if you don’t shag her I just might, if only to get those arms around me.”

The muscle of the Doctor’s bicep flexes and her throat bobs. She recaps the water bottle and goes back to the conversation, absolutely none the wiser that she’s slowly but surely killing Yaz.

“Imagine how strong her hands probably are —“

“Bill.”

“Dunno, though. You’re a trumpet player, probably got a good mouth on you that she’d —“

The sound of the whistle Clara keeps around her neck pulls them all out of the short break and Yaz is grateful for the interruption, if only so she doesn’t have to listen to Bill talk about the Doctor’s arms. Another hour of vis block and she finally gets that weird squat thing in the second act down, though she’s sweating clean through her shirt by now.

They go back to the school for lunch. Yaz picks up two remade meals from the food truck and finds Bill already sitting at a table with Ryan. They break off into sectionals for two hours then head back out for their last runs of the late afternoon. Yaz’s lips are sore from her mouthpiece and she tries blowing air through her mouth to relax her cheeks and soothe the ache in her face.

“Why do you look like you just saw the Doctor naked?”

Yaz looks over at Bill, confused. “What?” she sputters.

“Your face, it was all slack jawed.”

“Some of us play actual instruments, Bill.”

Bill purposely swings the drum in front of her to hit Yaz in the thigh. “I’ll show you an actual instrument when I shove this drum up your arse, I’ll tell you what,” she grumbles.

So, for clarification, there are some things you learn early on that you hope you never experience. One of them is falling during a run through.

If you break your ankle or pass out or have a seizure or drop your _entire snare_ ( _Bill_ ), no one will stop to help you. In fact, your best friends who you sleep in gymnasiums with every night for months on end will almost definitely step on top of you, without remorse, to get to their mark for the set. The trophy and title of first place can be easily lost by going around the fallen and not hitting your mark, and no one in any band she’s ever been a part of is going to let that slip away because a friend fell down.

Now, like, that’s usually only for competitions and such — _dire circumstances_. If someone falls during a practice drill they usually stop and reset to the beginning, with only minor haggling at the fallen who is the reason they have to restart (for the 60th time that day).

She doesn’t even see the hole. The field at this high school has so many of them that it’s next to impossible _not_ to step in one, and she had been extra careful to plant her steps on the ground the entire rehearsal, and it had worked. She didn’t even so much as slip out of line.

And then their director calls, “One more time!” — which almost always means “twelve more times but I say one now so you don’t have to think about that yet” — and they reset back to the start of the show. Yaz stands facing the back of the field, trumpet at her feet, in a diagonal line with the rest of her section. Her hands are sweating in her gloves and she feels beads of sweat running down the back of her neck, making her braid stick to her skin. She takes a drink of water and looks around at the rest of the band while they set up.

Bill stands on the other side of the field with her drum on it’s side at her feet, in formation with the rest of the drumline. Jack leans on his tuba nearby and looks like he’s trying to chat up some colorguard guy as he tries to set up his rifle on the field, the guard guy flushing bright at something Jack says and Yaz rolls her eyes. Like usual, her eyes move across the field towards the tall metal podium sitting at the 50 yard line, shining in the setting sun of the day.

The Doctor stands with her hands on her hips, sunglasses on and looking out at the band. Blonde hair sticks to her neck with sweat and she’s rolled her t-shirt up her stomach (which is doing _things_ to Yaz that probably shouldn’t be). She wipes a hand over her forehead, pushing back her hair short hair, and then her gaze falls on Yaz.

Well, she doesn’t know for _sure_ the Doctor is looking at her — because of the sunglasses and all — and she could definitely be looking at any of the other people around Yaz, but Yaz is pretty sure she’s looking at her. And the Doctor smirks and Yaz is positive she’s looking at her. And then she turns away and adjusts her gloves and they start their run through.

So, the field was shit to begin with, and she probably doesn’t plant her feet as much as she had been doing for the rest of rehearsal, and she’s practically sprinting backwards at 160 beats per minute (which doesn’t seem safe in the slightest) and she gets caught. Her shoe or her foot or something gets caught in a hole and instead of letting her continue, her ankle bends and then she’s flying back, her own marching momentum carrying her into a backwards roll and sending her trumpet flying.

She doesn’t even realize it’s happened until she’s bleeding on the ground, her ankle aching and a euphonium player standing over her, apologizing profusely. Her once white gloves are now splatter painted in blood and she looks around frantically, the throb in her face not even registering for a full thirty seconds.

“Where’s my trumpet?” she asks a little frantically, trying to spot the precious piece of metal on the ground. Her instrument _has_ to be okay, she really can’t afford to buy another. “Is my trumpet okay?”

“Yaz, your trumpet is fine. I need to see your nose,” someone says and then a white gloved hand is grabbing her chin and forcing her head forward and her eyes meet the Doctor’s and she looks…worried? She hands Yaz a wad of tissue. “Hold this to your nose, please. I need to see if it’s broken. _Are you okay_?” Her eyes flick up to Yaz’s for a moment before going back to her face.

Yaz doesn’t understand what’s happened — how did the Doctor get to where she’s on the field? And since when does she know first aid? She follows orders and holds the napkins under her nose still gushing blood and the Doctor pulls her own blood splattered gloves off and reaches up to poke and prod at Yaz’s nose.

“Better, now that you’re here,” Yaz says, tasting the coppery taste of blood in her mouth. The Doctor’s eyes shoot back up to her own for barely a second, her mouth opening and closing once before she sits back and drops her hands from Yaz’s face.

“Not broken, don’t think,” she says.

The medic runs up, red bag in hand and kneels down next to Yaz. She answers the questions about her fall and how her ankle feels and he checks out her nose again (still not broken, the Doctor was right) but all Yaz can do is watch the Doctor straighten up and wipe her hands on her shorts, watching from the edge of the crowd with a worried expression.

Bill finds her on the sideline immediately after rehearsal. “Jesus, you look like an extra from a horror movie,” she says with a grimace at Yaz’s bloody shirt.

“I think you gave me bad luck. We’re going to have to stop being friends,” Yaz says from her place on the ground. She puts the rest of her stuff back in her bag and slings it over her shoulder, picking up her trumpet and handing Bill’s bag to her as they start for the school again.

“I think at this point you’re stuck with me, mate,” Bill says, stick bag clicking against the side of her drum with every step.

“Until you age out or for life?”

“Life.”

“God help me.”

Bill ignores the comment and instead raises both her eyebrows at Yaz. “So, the Doctor really ran over to you, huh.”

“ _Bill_ ,” Yaz warns, already knowing where her friend is going to take the conversation.

“I’m just sayin’, I called it. Should’ve seen it, Yaz. She jumped from that podium and took off at a run to you, didn’t even wait for the band to stop. I think she elbowed poor Ryan in the head.”

“Bill, don’t make it a big deal. She doesn’t — that’s not — she had that thing with that vet who aged out last year, and besides, she doesn’t even like girls.”

“Yaz, mate, it’s 2020. Isn’t that biphobia?”

“I really wish we weren’t friends,” Yaz states.

It’s early evening when they get back to the school and Yaz changes into a new shirt and washes the rest of the blood off her hands and face before going to ensemble with Bill. Ryan pushes his marimba through the hall in front of them, his arms straining.

“What, you act like that’s heavy. C’mon, Ryan. Move a bit faster,” Bill quips, clapping her hands behind him.

“I’d give you the finger but —“

“But I’m your best mate and you’d never do that to your best mate, got it,” Bill interrupts.

Yaz takes pity on him and helps push the large instrument into the band room across the hall from the gym.

“Thanks, Yaz. Glad someone around here has tact.” He aims the last part at Bill who waddles off to the back of the music room.

“No problem, mate,” Yaz says, then turns on her heel to leave the room.

Except, someone is walking _in_ to the room through the same door, and they collide head on. Yaz starts to fall backwards and a strong arm catches her, holding her up. The Doctor looks down at her, sly grin slowly forming on her face as she practically holds Yaz in a dip.

“Sorry, didn’t see ya there,” she says and straightens, dropping her hand from Yaz’s back.

Yaz lets go of where she’s clutching the Doctor’s shirt in her hand and clears her throat, trying to get her voice to start working again instead of standing there like a dumb idiot.

“You should put some ice on that,” the Doctor says.

Yaz has absolutely no idea what she’s talking about, only able to concentrate on like, actually speaking in full sentences. “What?”

“Your nose. Probably best to put some ice on it, if you haven’t already,” she explains.

“Oh, yeah,” Yaz says lamely.

She wants to say something — doesn’t know _what_ to say except, “Thanks. For helpin’ me on the field, I mean. Probably would’ve been trampled if not for you.”

The Doctor looks sheepish and rubs the back of her neck, looking up through blonde hair. “Was nothin’. Looked like you needed help. That fall was…intense.”

“Sad I didn’t get to see it,” Yaz deadpans.

The Doctor smiles wide for a second, eyes bright, then steps back, looking suddenly awkward. “Well, glad you’re alright,” she says before stepping around Yaz and walking up to the drum instructor, holding out a piece of sheet music.

Bill comes up behind Yaz and nudges her in the side, following her out the doorway and across the hall to the gym where the rest of the band is set up. “Yaz, that was like a full conversation, I’m proper impressed. You didn’t blush hard _once_!”

Yaz ignores her, shutting the door behind her and leaving Bill in the hallway. She hears her muffled voice through the door yell, “You know I’m right!”

The food truck has the buffet line set out by the time they finish ensemble and bring in the battery for a few full run throughs of the show. Yaz stands next to Bill in the line while they listen to Ryan talk endlessly about this new video game or something, Yaz isn’t really paying attention. She adds a few comments here and there to keep him engaged but tunes out most of what he says until he snaps a finger in her face.

“Uh, Yaz? Whatcha doin’ there, mate?”

Yaz looks down at where she’s just holding the rice spoon in her hand, not using it or anything, then to where she’s holding up the line. She quickly scoops rice onto her plate and moves on. “Nothing, just tired.”

“Yeah, we can all see where your gaze was focused,” Bill states, pointing over at the table the Doctor is sitting at, the seats around her already full. “I bet if you’d asked nicely she’d make one of them move for you. Hell, probably move tables herself, honestly.”

“Is there anything we talk about that isn’t the Doctor?” Yaz asks exasperatedly as she picks up a bottle of water from the cooler on the floor and follows Ryan to a table nearby. She starts to sit down when Bill slides into the seat with a smirk.

“Sorry, I want this one. Looks like you’ll have to sit there,” she says, pointing to the other end of the table.

Yaz doesn’t understand why she’s being so weird until she looks up and locks eyes with the Doctor one table over, directly in her line of sight. Yaz turns to Bill with a murderous look.

“Don’t hurt me, I’m just tryna make love happen!” Bill protests.

“Will you please be a bit louder sayin’ that? I don’t think they heard it in _Ohio_ ,” Yaz grits through her teeth. She’s going to murder Bill one day, she’s sure of it. That’s how she’s going to end up on America’s Most Wanted. She’ll be DCI’s first murder during tour. “And besides, we’ve already talked about this, she doesn’t like me _like that._ Get over it, Bill. I did.” (Did she?)

“Oh, don’t give me that shit. Everyone with eyes can see she does. Ryan?” Bill turns to him for support but only finds him scrolling on his phone, not paying attention to their conversation at all. She throws a carrot at him.

“Oi!” He yells. “What?”

“Thanks for joining us, Ryan. The topic today is Yaz’s insatiable crush on the Doctor, and the Doctor’s bedroom eyes she’s been giving Yaz since, like, last year.”

“Bill, she doesn’t give me —“

“She does, mate,” Ryan interrupts.

“Honestly, I need to get new friends,” Yaz grumbles.

“You say that every day. Don’t think it still has the same affect now, mate,” Bill quips.

Yaz locks eyes with the Doctor a total of fifteen times during dinner and her heart jumps every single time. She’s different when she’s not on the field or in rehearsal — relaxed (though everyone is more relaxed when not in rehearsal, so that’s not really a big revelation). But not just physically relaxed; relaxed in the way she talks to the people at her table, laughing loud and with her head tilted back like she doesn’t have a care in the world. The way she listens intently to everything they say and waits to respond, and how she grins so bright it’s like someone had brought the sun into the room and Yaz remembers what it’s like to be on the receiving end of that grin.

And every time they lock eyes, the Doctor’s face softens and she gives her a small smile for barely a second before being pulled back into the conversation by her table mates.

She falls asleep that night on her half-deflated (the best middle ground between squishy and firm) air mattress with her nose still throbbing and hazel eyes burned into her memory. Hazel eyes and careful hands and worry. The last thing she thinks about before she falls asleep is, _she_ ** _cares_**.

**Author's Note:**

> as always send screaming towards @zanthetran on tumblr. The tag for this fic is #mbau


End file.
